


Pretty Bloody

by Spiral_Rush



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Blood Kink, Clothed Sex, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mutual Admiration, Orgasm as Metaphor for Death, Post sex misunderstanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiral_Rush/pseuds/Spiral_Rush
Summary: Frank is hurt in a bar fight and Billy tends to his wound, which leads to the two of them exploring desires that leave them confused.***Frank never looked hotter than when he was covered in blood. That was another thing Billy hadn’t told him. They'd never fooled around while they were bloody before, never had the opportunity. Billy licked his lips, arousal rising in him for real. He didn’t want Frank to clean off, not yet. With two fingers, Billy tipped Frank's chin up and to one side, admiring his red-stained face."Sorry I'm a little dirty," Frank said, not sounding sorry at all."The blood makes you look better. Covers your ugly mug.""We can't all be as pretty as you, Bill."Holding Frank's head still, Billy leaned down and rubbed his face in the blood, smearing it all over, making sure he got his cheeks and lips and forehead. Then he locked eyes with Frank and asked, "Am Iprettywith your blood on my face?""Fuck,yes," Frank said. "Even prettier."Billy crushed his lips against Frank's in a kiss so hard it might as well have been a bite.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Billy Russo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	Pretty Bloody

"Is it _still_ bleeding?" Frank asked, sounding annoyed rather than in pain.

Billy peeled up a corner of the gauze and examined the wound. Scalp injuries were always messy. The skin was thin and there were so many tiny blood vessels that broke easily. This cut wasn't deep but it kept dripping like a broken faucet. Pressing on it again, Billy said, "It's slowed down."

"Christ. I didn't bleed this much the entire time we were in Iraq." 

For the umpteenth time, Frank shifted in the chair. He'd been squirming since Billy sat him down to take care of him. “Will you keep still for five seconds?” Billy said. “You're gonna make it worse."

"I told you, I'll handle it."

Frank started lifting a hand and Billy pushed it back down onto the chair arm. "And I told you, I got this." 

“I can hold a piece of gauze on my own head. I'm not in a coma."

Billy let out a frustrated noise. “Do I have to tie you to this chair?”

“With _what_? Your shoelaces?”

“I got a whole roll of medical tape.”

Scoffing, Frank said, “That wouldn’t hold me.”

“Shall we find out?”

Frank laughed. “Bill, I don’t know what kind of weird shit you’re into but I am _not_ doing it with you.”

Billy poked Frank’s lower lip. “Maybe I’ll just tape your mouth shut.” In response, Frank tried to bite his finger. Yanking his hand away, Billy said, “I don't know how Curt deals with you. You are a terrible patient.”

"You're a terrible Corpsman."

“I’m sorry, who bought first aid supplies for you with his own money? Oh, wait, that was me.”

"I'll pay you back."

"You don't have to pay me back.” Billy sighed. “I’d just like some cooperation while I’m trying to keep what little brains you have from oozing out of your skull."

“It’s just a cut.”

“It’s just a cut that’s still bleeding.” If it didn’t stop soon, Billy would have to stitch it. One or two would be enough, but Frank would kick up a fuss about doing it himself. Taking care of a stubborn fool who hated anyone else helping him was a pain in the ass. Billy added, “You’re complaining so much you’d think I was trying to remove a kidney to sell on the black market.”

“You insisted on doing this.”

“And you insist on whining about it.” He imitated Frank. “Oh, no, I have a friend who gives a shit about me bleeding to death. It’s so annoying.”

“I am not gonna bleed to death,” Frank grumbled. But he finally stayed still. 

When they left the barracks for the weekend, Billy hadn’t expected to end up playing nurse. They had driven with no destination in mind except a bar far enough away for them to not see the same people they saw every single day. Now they were in the bathroom of a run-down motel at the intersection of two state highways in the middle of absolute nowhere. Across the parking lot was a 24-hour truck stop the size of a department store with a restaurant on one side. The place had everything from a dozen flavors of beef jerky to camo print fuzzy slippers, all ridiculously overpriced. Frank didn't have to pay him back, but gauze, antibiotic cream, etc., had cost way too much money. It was almost as bad as buying from a military supplier. The only other sign of civilization for a good twenty miles in any direction was the bar on the other side of the truck stop, which was where Frank had gotten injured.

Billy checked the cut again. It might have finally stopped bleeding but he wanted to wait a couple of minutes to be sure. He said, "All I wanted was to go out and have a good time." 

"Hey, this wasn't my fault."

"I didn't say it was."

A lot of the time, the fight _was_ Frank's fault. But tonight he really hadn't started it. Neither had Billy. The instigator was the jealous ex-boyfriend of a woman Billy had been chatting with. It was too bad. She had been hot and obviously interested. But after fists and various objects started flying, she'd quickly cleared out with most of the other customers. He didn't even get her number.

Most fights in the wild didn't last long. Usually one side, when confronted with real-life physical violence, gave up and ran. Billy had recognized the moment when the ex realized that he and his three buddies had bitten off more than they could chew. This hilarious, "Oh, _shit_ ," expression crossed his face right before Billy slammed him into a wall. 

Frank hadn't even been injured by their attackers. He got hit by a piece of broken glass that went airborne in the chaos. It got him in just the right spot and now he looked like he'd had a close encounter with an ax murderer. Blood caked the left side of his face and had dripped onto his neck and shoulder. His shirt was a total loss, the right sleeve ripped off. Not that Frank cared.

Billy eyed his jacket hanging on a hook on the bathroom door. A large splotch of blood had gotten right on the front. While he and Frank were leaving the bar, with the bartender yelling at their backs, he’d scrubbed it with a wet napkin, hoping that was enough to keep the stain from setting. He'd just bought the damn thing two weeks ago and barely worn it. Sure, it came from Goodwill, but it was real leather. Some day, he wouldn't have to scrounge around thrift stores searching for decent clothes. He'd be able to buy whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.

Looking back at Frank, Billy said, "It was funny when you hit that guy and he fell against the jukebox and Ring of Fire started playing."

"Yeah, it was." Frank chuckled. The ex who attacked Billy ran off after getting his bell rung. Rather than pursue him to continue the beatdown, Billy had stayed to watch Frank handle the guy's friends. If necessary, he would have stepped in but that hadn't been necessary. Really, it was too bad those assholes gave up so fast. Seeing Frank work his magic was a thing of beauty. But a lot of guys didn't really want to fight. They just wanted to ambush an opponent they thought was weak, get an easy win, then brag like they were tough later.

Keeping one hand on the gauze, Billy ran a finger over Frank's blood-slicked ear. The tip came away red and he suppressed an urge to suck on it. He would never admit it, but part of his reason for wanting to do this was getting to touch Frank while bloodied up. Frank smelled like beer, sweat, and blood, a combination of odors sitting right on the line between disgusting and strangely fascinating. "You really stink," Billy said.

Frank pressed his nose into Billy's chest and, sniffing loudly, said, "You smell like Tang." 

“I do _not_.”

“You do. Did you pay money for perfume that smells like that or did you just roll around in some Tang?"

"It's _cologne_." The label said it had notes of citrus, cedar, and green. (Billy had no idea what 'green' was supposed to smell like other than maybe grass or lime Jello.) "I'd show you the bottle but you'd just drink it."

“It’s _cologne_.” Frank imitated Billy. "Perfume for men."

"If you don't like it, get your nose out of my armpit, dumbass."

"I didn't say I didn't like it. I'm just saying that's what you smell like." Frank rubbed his nose against Billy, who didn't push him away.

The entire night had been frustrating. Billy had looked forward to getting drunk and getting laid and been well on his way to achieving those goals when that asshole threw a punch at him. But here he was with Frank, in a room they had all to themselves for the rest of the night. All that thwarted desire might have a place to go after all.

Sometimes, they got each other off. It had started one night when they were drunk and horny and alone together. There wasn’t much of a story other than that. Billy didn’t even remember who touched who first but once they got their hands on each other, they couldn’t stop. Ever since, they'd indulged themselves. Their encounters were brief and to the point, mostly hand jobs, the occasional blow job, in hidden corners on base. 

Getting together with Frank was fun. Some of the noises, the faces, Frank made when he was fighting and when he was having sex were the same. That turned Billy on, not that he told Frank. They didn’t pretend they weren’t fooling around but they didn’t _talk_ about it, didn’t share the things that excited them. 

Right now, Frank was leaning against Billy, the warmth of Frank’s body seeping through his thin undershirt. It made Billy consider the possibilities. He lifted the gauze again. This time there was no fresh blood. "It's stopped bleeding," he said.

"Finally," Frank muttered. The word reverberated against Billy's ribs.

"Let me tape it." Keeping one hand on Frank, he retrieved the tape and secured the gauze in place.

"I should clean up,” Frank said. But he didn't move away. Instead, he traced the blood splatter on Billy’s white shirt. "I got you all bloody, too." 

Billy shrugged. The shirt was cheap and easily replaced. Frank's fingers slid under the fabric, touching bare flesh. Billy's skin prickled. He let his hands drift lightly down the back of Frank's head and neck, then back up around the ears and jaw. His fingertips tracked blood in their path.

Frank never looked hotter than when he was covered in blood. That was another thing Billy hadn’t told him. They'd never fooled around while they were bloody before, never had the opportunity. Billy licked his lips, arousal rising in him for real. He didn’t want Frank to clean off, not yet. With two fingers, Billy tipped Frank's chin up and to one side, admiring his red-stained face.

"Sorry I'm a little dirty," Frank said, not sounding sorry at all.

"The blood makes you look better. Covers your ugly mug."

"We can't all be as pretty as you, Bill."

Holding Frank's head still, Billy leaned down and rubbed his face in the blood, smearing it all over, making sure he got his cheeks and lips and forehead. Then he locked eyes with Frank and asked, "Am I _pretty_ with your blood on my face?"

"Fuck, _yes_ ," Frank said. "Even prettier."

Billy crushed his lips against Frank's in a kiss so hard it might as well have been a bite. His half-formed desire ignited into aching lust. Somewhere in the back of his mind, surprise registered at how suddenly the need came on but he had no time, no capacity, to think about it. He had never wanted anyone in his life as much as he wanted Frank Castle at this moment. Standing back up, he pulled Frank out of the chair.

"Your motor's running now," Frank said with a grin. He wrapped his arms around Billy and went in for another kiss. Kissing wasn't something they'd done much of, but now they kissed hard and deep, tongues in each other's mouths. Frank had shaved before going out tonight and his skin was smooth, his lips surprisingly soft.

Billy grabbed Frank's crotch, feeling the growing erection under rough denim. Frank rubbed against Billy's hand, encouraging. Billy fumbled one-handed with the zipper, the sound of it finally coming undone giving him gooseflesh. He put both hands on Frank, fondling the balls, gripping and tugging the cock. Frank undid Billy’s fly and repaid the favor. His strong hands squeezed and stroked Billy, sliding between skin and underwear. Billy's cock strained against the smooth fabric. The extra friction felt good. 

Hands still inside Frank's jeans, Billy walked forward, nudging Frank toward the tile wall. Frank's hip hit the edge of the sink. Billy pulled Frank's dick to the right a bit and Frank followed, letting himself be steered by his cock. _That_ sent another powerful jolt of desire through Billy. When Frank’s back was at the wall, Billy pressed against him hard, kissing and sucking his neck. 

They were both still dressed from their bloody shirts to their shoes. But Billy was way too frantic to bother with removing clothing. All his attention was focused on getting as much of Frank under his mouth and his hands as he could as fast as he could. Their dicks, caught between them, slid against their bellies just above the public hair. Billy let go of Frank's for a moment so he could feel the rest of that solid, muscular body. He didn’t get a chance to do that nearly enough. His hands darted in and out of Frank's ruined shirt, caressing the stomach, sides, chest, shoulders, arms. Frank slipped his own into Billy's jeans, squeezing ass and thighs. Then he moved up under Billy's t-shirt. The fabric stretched and bulged as Frank traced Billy’s spine. Frank came around front to brush, then squeeze, Billy’s nipples. Pleasure jolted through Billy, making him arch his back involuntarily. The forceful motion tore seams in his shirt, the sound loud in his ears.

Billy grunted. Frank's dick poked his hip and he seized it and brought it alongside his own. His hand was just large enough to get hold of both of them and he squeezed them together. Frank got his own grip on their cocks, adding to the pressure. Their hands overlapped, fingers brushing. Billy rested his other palm against the wall to steady himself. The tile was cool, a sharp contrast to the heat of their bodies. They ground against each other. Frank's tongue traced Billy's lips, then licked the cheeks, lapping at his own blood. 

"You like me with blood on me," Billy said. He hadn’t really intended to say it out loud. His head was buzzing, fantasy and reality blurring a bit.

"Don't you like me the same way?" Billy ran his tongue over the blood on Frank's face. The sharp copper taste stung. Chuckling, Frank said, "I'll take that as a yes."

Billy rammed his mouth against Frank's again. They moved together, hands and bellies and cocks rubbing, pumping. The scent of pre-ejaculate joined the smell of sweat, blood, and alcohol filling his nose. His own heartbeat pounded in his ears, thumping underneath the soft slither of skin on skin and the rough rustle of denim against denim, punctuated by sharp hisses and low moans from both of them. 

Aching with the need to get off, Billy picked up the pace. He felt every shiver, every breath, every twitch from Frank like it was in his own body. There was no distance to close between them, all the vulnerable parts -- throats, guts, major arteries, hearts -- exposed. They could kill each other just as easily as they were fucking each other. The thought tipped Billy over the edge. Moaning, trembling, he wasn't sure if he was coming to the idea of killing Frank or of Frank killing him. He wasn't sure it mattered. The little death, people called it. By this point, he and Frank had experienced quite a few little deaths together. Someday, they'd probably experience the big death together. He couldn't imagine dying any other way.

Billy's head cleared as his orgasm faded. Frank was still going. Billy squeezed his dick and gave a long lick up the side of his face. The blood was thin now, having smeared everywhere, but he could still taste it. "You're the last to finish, Frank. Come on." 

"Gimme a sec and I'll come on _you_."

"Hurry it up then." 

"What's the rush? You going somewhere after?"

"I'm getting tired of you humping me." The continued friction against his oversensitive cock and balls was on the verge of becoming painful.

"You know, you could help out instead of just complaining."

Leaning into Frank's ear, Billy said softly, "You were _so_ fucking hot tonight. I love watching you do what you do best."

That got a small noise of pleasure from Frank. "You like that, huh? Turns you on?"

"You know it does, Frankie boy. _You_ like showing off for me."

There was a thrill in just laying it out like that. Frank liked fucking people up. Billy liked seeing it. Frank liked him liking it. They had their own private loop of sex and violence.

"Oh, you think," Frank's breath hitched, "I'm showing off for you?" 

"I know you are." Billy nipped his earlobe. Frank could pretend to protest all he wanted but just talking about it clearly kicked him into high gear. He was getting close. Billy could feel it in the rhythm, the tension of his body. 

He whispered again in Frank's ear, remembering past fights they had been in, how vicious and glorious Frank could be. The one tonight had been no contest, like watching a lion bat a few housecats around. But it reminded Billy of other times when Frank faced worthier opponents and always emerged bloodied but triumphant. Frank was the best and Billy only wanted the best.

Billy rammed Frank, forcing the small of his back flush against the wall. If he hadn’t just orgasmed himself, he would be hard again. Frank bucked and almost knocked Billy off him. Holding tight, Billy said, "You're fucking stone cold crazy and I fucking _love_ it.”

That did the trick. Gasping and shuddering, Frank came. It did get all over Billy.

For a few moments, they stayed still, leaning against the wall for support, hands resting loosely on each other. Billy pressed his forehead against the tile as he gradually came back to Earth, Frank panting in his ear.

Then they let go. Still standing, Billy rolled his back against the wall, flexing to stretch it. The cool air felt good on his genitals. Yawning, Frank eased himself down to the floor, sitting with one knee up and one leg out. Billy glanced at his watch. It was already 3AM. He yawned himself, wanting to just get into bed. But another glance in the mirror above the sink showed him how much of a mess he was, with blood staining his face, throat, and chest, even his hair. Now that they were done, the sexual charge had drained out of it, leaving him wanting to wash up. 

"I'm gonna shower," he said, stripping. 

As he was getting in, Frank laughed. Billy turned and looked at him. "What?"

"You got bloody handprints on your butt."

Billy rolled his eyes and closed the curtain.

Later, while Frank showered, Billy cleaned up the stray blood streaks in the bathroom. Their clothes he stuffed in plastic bags to be dealt with in the morning. Since they didn’t have to be back on base until Monday, they had extra for the rest of the weekend. Right now, he was going to bed. 

The room only had a single queen but that didn’t matter. They were used to sleeping next to each other, usually in a tent. Billy lay on his back, resting his head on his arms. Over the sound of running water, he heard Frank humming Hungry Heart, which had played in the bar earlier. Frank didn’t sing in the shower but when he was in a particularly good mood, he hummed. 

Billy smiled to himself, glad Frank was pleased. Tonight, things had gotten a bit weird, with the blood stuff and talking to each other. But that didn’t mean things had to be uncomfortable between them after. It had been nice getting confirmation of something Billy had wondered about for a while, whether Frank got off on watching _him_ work. He was glad the answer was yes and also that it was out in the open now. This particular _thing_ was not exactly something either of them could tell most of their sex partners. Other people would be disturbed. But they could share it with each other.

The only thing puzzling Billy was why the hell Frank calling him pretty had lit him on fire. Generally, he just rolled with whatever got him and whoever he was with off. Thinking too hard about what turned your crank would drive you nuts. But this was so completely opposite to his usual reaction he couldn't help wondering.

Billy couldn’t stop people from calling him pretty so he’d learned to deal. If he told other guys it got under his skin, they’d just say it more. And there was no way in hell he was explaining _why_ he hated the word. It was, as the saying went, his story to tell and he didn’t want to tell it. When somebody called him pretty boy, he tried to think of it as a compliment. And a lot of the time, that worked. He agreed that, yes, he _was_ so much better looking than any other guy in the room. It was part of him being better in general. Billy Russo was the whole package: smart, tough, ruthless, pretty. More than pretty-- he was fucking beautiful, a flesh and blood work of art. Why shouldn’t he show off? Other guys showed off their money and cars and fancy houses. He didn’t have any of that but he had a beautiful face. 

The water turned off. A few minutes later, Frank emerged, clean, a towel wrapped around his waist. He'd also put a fresh bandage on his cut. Billy had a thing about Frank covered in blood but he had to admit the man looked damn good freshly showered too. 

Frank sat on the edge of the bed and blew his nose. Billy asked, “How’s the head trauma?”

“Fine.” Frank touched the gauze, then looked at Billy for a long moment. He opened his mouth again but didn’t say whatever he was going to say.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Billy studied Frank, who kept looking at him then looking away. Were things going to be uncomfortable between them after all? Frank had been content in the immediate afterglow. But now he was cleaned up and back to normal, was he having second thoughts?

“Tonight turned out okay after all, didn’t it?" Billy said. "I mean, the fun doesn’t really start until you get thrown out of the bar, right?”

“I guess."

Uneasy, Billy shifted on the bed. Had they gone too far? Was Frank okay with them jerking each other off in a storage room but all this — hugging, kissing, confessing their little fantasies to each other in a motel room out in the world — was too much? Was Billy going to get, “You’re pretty and fun to fuck but I don’t want to talk to you like a person,” from _Frank_?

Billy smoothed the bedcover around him. If Frank wasn’t okay with how things had gone tonight, it wouldn’t happen again. “Well, tomorrow we’ll have a proper night out. And you won’t end up stuck with me.”

“Stuck with you?” Frank looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

“You’d rather be getting into bed with someone else right now. That’s all right. I mean, sneaking away to jack off together is fine if you’re bored and horny and trapped on base, but it’s no way to spend a Friday night outside.” 

Frank leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Okay. Wow. I don’t know where that came from. Unless," he paused, “is that how _you_ feel? Stuck with me?”

For a second, Billy froze, filled with the dread of realizing he had miscalculated. “Frank, no.” He shook his head. “No.”

“You're not disappointed you ended up in this room with me and not that very attractive woman who was all over you earlier?"

 _Shit_. Billy had screwed up and now Frank was pissed. “I’m _not_ disappointed.”

“You sure? You weren’t busy thinking about her while you were telling me how hot I am?” He said the last few words with heavy sarcasm, and not in his usual way of jokingly giving Billy shit just because he could. There was an edge there.

“I have never been disappointed with you, Frank.”

“Well, it kinda sounds like you are tonight.” For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Frank said, “Whatever. I’m going to sleep,” and got under the bedspread. He turned to face away from Billy.

The prospect of sleeping next to Frank while he was mad did not appeal to Billy. They needed to settle this. “I just thought—”

“Thought what?”

“I thought you were weirded out, is all.”

“Weirded out by what?”

“Uh, pick any of the things that happened?”

That got a snort of laughter from Frank. Then he asked, “Were _you_ weirded out?”

Billy considered for a second. “I kinda feel like I should be more than I am, you know?”

“Hmm.”

“Look, I just meant that if, you know, you didn’t have fun, we won’t do anything like this again.”

Frank rolled over and propped his head up on one arm. “Did I say I didn’t have fun?”

“No.” Billy avoided looking directly at Frank. 

“Do I seem like the kind of person who’d let you know if I wasn’t enjoying myself?”

“If you mean do you complain endlessly when you’re unhappy, hell, yeah, you do.”

“I do not complain.”

“He says, after I spent half the night listening to him bellyache over me holding a freaking bandage on his head.”

Frank made a derisive noise. Then he added, “Everything was fine tonight, Bill.”

“No regrets?”

“Nah.”

Billy nodded. “Me neither.” 

The part of Billy that was always wondering if people meant what they said doubted Frank but he dismissed it. Frank had never lied to him yet. Billy trusted that Frank wasn't lying now. He had overreacted, read things into his friend’s expressions that weren’t there. Still, Frank _had_ been looking at him oddly. What was the explanation for that? He couldn't think of a way to ask without sounding paranoid, so he didn't.

He did sometimes wonder what Frank thought of their arrangement, assuming Frank thought about it at all when they weren't going at each other. Honestly, Billy wasn’t sure what he thought of it himself other than that it was a good time and he wanted to keep doing it. Did it need to be anything else? As long as they were both satisfied, they could do whatever they liked. If things got weird occasionally, things got weird.

Something occurred to Billy that he couldn’t help commenting on. “You were mad that I might not think you’re hot?”

“I wasn’t mad about it.” 

“Uh huh.”

“I was just wondering if you meant it or if you were just saying shit.”

“Oh, I meant it. You are totally hot, Frankie. Blazing. Scorching.” He gestured along his body. “I got blisters all over me.” They both laughed. A moment passed without Frank saying anything, so Billy prompted, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“I just said you were hot. You don’t have anything to say back?”

Frank looked at him with confusion.

Billy sighed. “Like, maybe, ‘Oh, you’re hot, too’.”

“Excuse me. I didn’t know the guy people call Bill the Beaut _didn’t realize_ he’s good-looking. Let me be the first to tell you this shocking information.”

“I know that, jackass. It’d just be nice to hear it.” Specifically, it would be nice to hear it from Frank.

“I don’t know if I can properly convey how devastatingly _beautiful_ you are,” Frank said. He could have swapped “idiotic” for “beautiful” and his tone would have been the same. “I’d have to write a fucking sonnet or some shit.” 

Billy burst out laughing. “I’d like to see you write a sonnet.”

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yes! You write me a sonnet and I swear I will keep that shit til I die, right in my pocket. I'll take it out and read it whenever I need a laugh.”

Frank furrowed his brow. “There once was a Marine named Bill…”

“That’s a limerick.”

“What rhymes with asshole?” 

After their laughter died down, Frank said, "For the record, I did say you were hot earlier.”

“You said I was pretty. That is not the same thing.” Did Billy have to explain this? 

Frank looked at him. “I suppose not. Well, all right, then. You, William Russo, are hot.”

“There.” Billy threw up his hands. “Was that so difficult?”

Yawning widely, Frank rolled over onto his back. After a moment, he said, “You know, I like you being pretty. You look all delicate and baby-faced, but you’re one of the toughest guys I ever met. I like that.”

And suddenly the reason Billy had gotten so turned on earlier clicked into place. He hated the word pretty because, despite his efforts to transform it, make it his own, it still meant being weak, being prey. But Frank didn't think that. He mocked Billy for being vain (like most of the guys in the Corps weren't vain as hell, showing off their muscles at every opportunity). But Frank never thought he was _weak_. He knew Billy only looked fragile. Frank saw him as a beautiful predator, like a tiger or a hawk or a colorful snake. When Frank said he was even more beautiful covered in blood, when he was dangerous, it drove him wild.

Frank’s eyes had closed. Billy flipped a switch above the bed, turning off the lights on either side. “‘Night, Frank,” he said.

“G’night,” Frank mumbled. It wasn't long before his breathing settled into a slow, even pace that indicated he was asleep.

Billy yawned and closed his own eyes. Tonight had been a very good night after all.

***

When Billy woke up, it was still morning but just barely. The other side of the bed was empty, which was slightly disappointing. But it wasn’t long before Frank returned with coffee and breakfast sandwiches. He didn't ask for money, a way of paying Billy back for the first aid stuff.

After eating, Billy showered again. When he got out, Frank was sitting at the desk, writing on a notepad. This was unusual enough behavior that Billy asked, “What are you writing down?”

“I’m working on that sonnet.”

“You are not.” He went to stand over Frank’s shoulder to read it.

Frank covered the page with his hand. “It’s not done yet.”

Billy tried to grab the pad but Frank shoved it under his shirt. “I don’t believe you.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“You’re writing a poem?"

"Yeah."

"Seriously?” Frank nodded. "For me?"

“You said you wanted me to.”

That was the funniest thing Billy had heard in— well, possibly ever. He was also kind of flattered but he wasn’t going to tell Frank that. “Read it to me.”

“It’s not done.”

“Read what you wrote so far.”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have told me you were doing it then.” Frank shook his head. Billy put his hands on Frank’s shoulders. “C’mon. Just a couple lines. A preview. You can show me the rest when it’s done.”

“All right.” Frank removed the pad from under his shirt, cleared his throat, and began. “With eyes dark as two cans of tobacco chew…”

“Oh, God.”

“And expensive cologne smelling of Tang…”

“ _Frank_.”

“He joined the Marines, the brave, proud, and few.”

“ _Stop_.” Billy put his hands over his ears. 

“That’s as far as I got. I wanna work 'boomerang' into the next line but it's stumping me."

Sitting down heavily on the bed, Billy wondered what it would take to get Frank to stop writing this poem.


End file.
